Because if they don’t know, if they’re mad at me for some other completely unrelated crime that I’m oblivious to committing, it could destroy Aisling if I came out and said it.
So instead, I just say, “If you have something to say, then say it.”
But they don’t. Cowards.
And as the silence stretches, the tension reaching the brink of explosion, Sandro steps forward. “That’s enough.”
“No,” I say, raising a hand. Because I’m done with this petty vendetta threatening an alliance that could change everything, so I take a step toward them. “Whatever it is you have against me, we’re dealing with this here and now. I’m not dragging this passive-aggressive bullshit into a war we won’t win unless we can have each other’s backs. You want to hit me? Then do it. I’ll give you each a free punch.”
Miko curses under his breath.
Sandro grabs my arm, dragging me back out of earshot. “Raf, you can’t.”
“I can and I will if it’ll get them to shut up. We need the Murrays, Sandro. We need the Irish. You’ve said it yourself a hundred times. And we can’t work with them if Aisling’s brothers are going to constantly be at my throat, undermining my authority.”
“Then let me take the punches,” Sandro insists. “We need your brain. Not mine.”
I smirk, grasping my twin by the nape of his neck and pressing my forehead against his. “Don’t sell yourself short, Brother. Besides, it’s not you they want to hit.”
I move to step around him, and Sandro grabs for my shoulder.
“Raf,” he growls a warning.
But I shake him off, turning my attention back to the Murrays. “You boys want closure? You want to get your anger out? Take a swing. Each of you. Right now. No repercussions. One hit. But then let’s be done with it.”
Cillian lifts his brows. “You’re serious?”
“As death.”
The brothers glance at each other again—hungry, eager, righteous—and wicked grins stretch across their faces.
I know what they’ve decided without their having to say it, and my stomach somersaults.
It might have been my bad idea, but this is going to hurt.
Patrick steps forward first, rolling his shoulders back as he squares up with me, bare-knuckle Irish style. “Just to be clear,” he says, “this doesn’t mean we have to like you afterward.”
I smirk. “Good. I’d be worried if you did.”
His fist slams into my jaw with a crack that lights up the world, and I stumble back but manage to stay standing as Sandro braces me with a steadying hand against my spine. Shaking my head, I step forward again and stretch my neck, cracking it as I brace for the next hit.
Then Ryan steps up, his green eyes glinting as he takes a body shot, brutal and clean, that nearly drives me to my knees.
The air bursts from my lungs with such force, I cough and wheeze, doubling over to spit blood.
The oldest Murray brother just smiles.
Biting back a groan, I wipe the red-tinged spit from my lip and straighten, fighting every instinct to defend myself as Cillian—the biggest and strongest of the Murray brothers—pops his knuckles and steps forward.
“You asked for it,” he sneers, winding up his punch, and I turn my cheek, closing my eye as I recognize the face shot that’s coming.
“I did,” I agree, and honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking. Because this is so much worse than I imagined.
Cillian moves with lightning speed, his fist coming at my temple with such force, I barely register that he’s moving before he hits me.
Hard.
Then the world blinks out.